He remained seated, his stubby fingers splayed out along the edge of the white tablecloth. And he mumbled something barely audible in response to Ben’s “A pleasure, Mr. Tingle.”
“Mummy, is he real?” Tam’s whisper carried much further. “Or is he just pretend?”
“Him’s a sea fairy,” Abbey’s face glowed. She tiptoed forward, eager for a closer look, but careful not to rush in case she made him disappear.
“They think it’s magic.” Ben ran his fingers through his dark hair, probably to massage his brain back into working order. “How did you get the table and all the dishes as well as the food down here? I suppose you came by the path rather than the steps, but even so, some undertaking.”
“I used a handcart,” Tom said quite pleasantly. “It’s over there behind those rocks.” He gestured towards a couple of giant boulders. And I found myself wondering what they had been in their former lives before some wicked witch turned them to stone.
I scrambled forward to collect Abbey, who was now standing behind Tom and inspecting his ears. “Well, we’ll go and leave you to your meal before it gets cold.”
“Yes, wouldn’t want the salad to cool off, or the smoked salmon, for that matter.” He laughed at his small joke. “Even the soup is meant to be served cold. I call it potato leek, but it’s got one of those fancy French names.”
“Vichyssoise,” supplied Ben, and Tam’s eyes grew big—understandably so, because until now he had thought “Abracadabra!” the only magic word his father knew.
“I made it from one of those packet mixes.” Tom was clearly making an attempt at conversation. “It was my only shortcut because I wanted the meal to be perfect.”
“Is it your birfday?” Tam and Abbey asked together.
“As a matter of fact it is.” Tom looked embarrassed and his eyes shifted away from ours to look out over the sea, which had lost some of its smooth sparkle and made louder whooshing sounds as it came frothing up on the sands. The sky had turned grey in patches and the sun looked ready to hole up behind the clouds. Something had definitely gone out of the day. It was suddenly clear that Tom was a sad and lonely man. Abbey and Tam asked if he would like to come and have some of Jonas’s birthday cake, and his face brightened before he shook his head.
“Thanks but I think it’s going to rain.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” I said. And feeling rather as though I were abandoning a baby on a church doorstep, turned to go.
Ben, the children, and I trod in single file along the strip of sand leading from one beach to the next, getting our feet wet as the waves made little foam-lipped rushes at us.
“I think he’s a sad fairy.” Abbey was looking back over her shoulder, although it was no longer possible to see Tom. We were back on our own little beach. Jonas was dozing in his chair, with a handkerchief spread over his head to protect it from the sun, which now posed little threat. He started awake at our approach. At the same moment the handkerchief blew away—flapping itself into wings. The children went happily scampering after it.
They didn’t look nearly as merry when we all started trudging up the stone staircase back to the car. Abbey thought she had lost one of her shells and Tam kept saying, at every second step, that he didn’t see why he couldn’t go paddling. Keeping my temper wasn’t easy. My son’s constant stopping meant I was always in danger of bumping into him as I made up the rear of the procession with the buckets and spades. The traveling rug kept sliding off my arm as if determined to get itself stepped on. Just as I pitched forward for the third time and let out an unnerved scream we reached the top. Ben set the chair and picnic basket down on the gravel-strewn grass while he opened up the boot of the car.
The breeze tugged at my hair, spilling some strands over my eyes, but it felt good standing there, even with my skirts slapping against my legs as if chivying me into getting into the car. Three or four gulls glided overhead. I stood listening to their hoarse cries, wondering if they ever had anything cheerful to say when humans weren’t around. And then I heard someone—or something—else cry out. The sound blew in from the sea below; there was suddenly a deep silence as even these gulls shut up to listen and the wind held its breath. I had just decided I was imagining things when Ben hurried up beside me.
“What was that?” He gripped my arm.
“I don’t know.” I stood stock-still.
It came again, a thin thread of a wail, followed a few seconds later by a more robust shout that Ben and I both instantly recognized as a cry for help. Dodging back to the car, I told Jonas to stay with the twins. “Someone’s in trouble down on the beach or in the water.” Someone! I had little doubt that it was Tom Tingle.
“Here, take the traveling rug.” Jonas thrust it into my hands as I raced after my husband. Already it seemed ages since we had first heard that cry. It was raining hard when I reached the cliff steps.
But I couldn’t worry about losing my balance as I made my blurry descent; my mind was filled with the image of Tom Tingle floundering in the sea, spewing out water like a fountainhead while trying to catch his breath.
All my energy went to chasing Ben’s shadow around the armchair curve of cliff separating the two beaches. The narrow strip leading from one to the other was now ankle deep in water and to prevent myself from stumbling I had to keep grabbing at the boulder wall. At last I could see Ben again. He was standing where the sky and the sea merged, kicking off his shoes and wrenching off his jacket.
“Be careful!” I yelled. And then he was splashing into the water, his arms extended as he prepared to leap into the waves. He wasn’t a great swimmer, and there was said to be a vicious undertow beyond the breakwaters. My life flashed before me—my life as a heartbroken widow with two small children to bring up alone. Would Abbey and Tam even remember their father? Would I ever come out of mourning and stop cursing fate?
I could no longer see him through the rain, but I heard him shouting out to the other person in the water, and over the loud knocking of my heart I heard an answering cry. It didn’t sound too far off. Hope reared its head as I hovered at the water’s edge, my hands cupped fruitlessly over my eyes. There was nothing to see but grey.
The sea moved and the sky didn’t, that was the only difference. I had dropped the plaid rug a few yards away. Now I forced myself to go pick it up and shake off the sand. Then I got Ben’s jacket. My nerves were ticking like a clock and my hands shook. I had never been more frightened in my life. For what seemed like ages I didn’t hear anything. Then there came a shout. But I couldn’t recognize the voice.
I had just reached the calm of icy desperation, when suddenly the nightmare was over. First I heard a splashing, and then something dark and hulking emerged before my eyes. It was Ben, my one true love, staggering under the burden of carrying someone in his arms. Someone who looked to be a deadweight...
“Darling! Are you all right? Is it Tom? Did you get to him in time?” I gabbled, weaving my way like a drunkard towards them with the traveling rug and his jacket.
“Yes, it’s him.” Ben spoke slowly, panting as he rose after laying the other man on the ground. “He was alive a couple of minutes ago. Thank God he didn’t struggle and try to drag me under as I towed him in. I told him I’m not much of a swimmer and he kicked quite productively when I got him under the armpits.”
I helped Ben put on his jacket, but he was still shivering when we both bent over Tom Tingle. Fully clothed except for his shoes, he looked waterlogged and had his eyes closed. But he was definitely breathing. If his heaving chest meant anything. Spreading the traveling rug over him and tucking in the edges, I whispered to Ben.
“I wonder?”
“About what?”
“If he meant to drown himself.” The rain was thinning out and it was now possible to see the table and chair where he’d sat making his solitary birthday meal. Ben started to speak, but before he got out half a word, Tom Tingle’s eyes opened and he spoke either to us or some vision inside his head.
“It was an accident But how can a halfway decent man live with that?”
Chapter 9
Wash bone-china dinner services and tea sets during spring cleaning. It is necessary that this be done once a year to prevent cracking.
On the following Thursday Freddy showed up early in the afternoon and stayed to watch me mix up a batch of furniture polish from the instructions in Abigail’s little book. Eager for validation, I bragged about having made some silver polish the day before, at the prospect of which my cousin looked suitably awed. Had I, he inquired, thought of mass-producing an entire line of housecleaning products? And if so could he please be the one to start selling door to door? Such enthusiasm warmed my heart. I actually liked his idea until I thought about turning the kitchen into a one-woman factory. No hope of Freddy, however enthusiastic a salesman, agreeing to do part of the menial work.
He did offer to eat a slice of the chocolate cake left over from an ill-fated picnic. In fact he had two slices, saying it would be negligent to let it go to waste. Scratching his beard, he looked at me in what I’m sure he considered a meaningful way.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I assured him, swallowing my last mouthful of cake, “about going to see Dr. Solomon about Jonas.”
“When’s he due back from his holiday, coz?”
“Today. But I thought I’d go tomorrow morning when the twins are in play school.”
“Bad idea. Doesn’t do to procrastinate.” Freddy ambled over to the refrigerator to stand with the door open, peering inside with all the intensity of an anthropologist studying culture as evinced by an igloo. Finally, before his nose got frost-bitten off his face, he took out a bottle of milk and the makings of a ham sandwich and unloaded these spoils on the table. “You see,” he said cheerfully, “you can take yourself off, Ellie, without fear I will starve to death in your absence.”
“You just had half a cake,” I reminded him.
“Did I?” He was busily unwrapping the sliced ham and squeezing the bread to make sure it was fresh. “As I was just saying, Ellie, procrastination is a bad thing. Always get a head start, that’s my motto.” Should I take his advice and go along to Dr. Solomon’s surgery now? But I hated leaving the kitchen such a shambles. Besides, I didn’t like the idea of leaving my polish-making paraphernalia sitting out where the children could get hold of it.
“Go,” urged Freddy through a mouthful of sandwich. “I’ll clean up this mess before the twins get up from their naps. Take all the time you want. As Mrs. Malloy was fond of saying, I only charge by the hour.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” I said, “about there being no rush, I’ll take Jonas’s mirror to be repaired and return Brigadier Lester-Smith’s raincoat. I really do need to get Ben’s coat back.” I was getting into mine as I spoke and taking a scarf from a hook in the alcove to put in my pocket.
“Don’t forget your handbag.” Freddy tucked it under my arm after I had collected both mirror and raincoat, then ushered me out the door as if I had come trying to sell my furniture polish. “And remember don’t stint yourself on time. I can survive on what you have in the house at least until tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t forget the children and Jonas.” I kissed his fuzzy cheek. “They’ll need something to eat when they get up from their naps.”
“Never fear, Freddy’s here!” He waved me off, eager to return to his mid-afternoon snack, and I headed for the old convertible. It was a little chilly, but the skies looked innocent enough. I set off, but instead of turning towards the village on exiting our gateway, the car turned as if of its own volition in the direction of Bellkiek, as we had done on the day of the picnic.
I had thought a lot about Tom Tingle in the last few days. What had he meant in saying “It was an accident?” Ben thought Tom must have been speaking about putting both their lives in danger. But I wasn’t convinced.
Within seconds Tom had been on his feet, apologizing in a shamefaced voice for making a nuisance of himself, thanking Ben for the rescue, and insisting he could make it back to his house on his own. He did not explain why he had gone into the sea with his clothes on. When we insisted on seeing him to his house, he turned the handle of the unlocked front door, bobbed us a nod, and went inside without even asking Ben if he would like to dry off.
It wasn’t until the children and Jonas were in bed that Ben and I talked about the incident. And I posed the question, was it possible Tom had been talking about Mrs. Large? Did he believe himself responsible for her death? Had he perhaps opened the study door at Tall Chimneys and knocked the poor woman off her ladder? Was he consumed with guilt that he hadn’t seen that a doctor was fetched? Or confessed his involvement to the police? Ben had told me I was letting my imagination run riot. At which point he had sneezed. Whereupon I decided one should always think first of the living.
Which in this case meant feeling my husband’s forehead to make sure he didn’t have a temperature. Then making him another cup of cocoa before insisting he get between warm bedclothes and have a good night’s sleep.
But I had continued to worry about Tom Tingle. Suppose his entering the water had been an attempt at suicide? And he tried again? The thought turned my legs wobbly as I now drove towards his house. There was no blaming Ben. Men don’t think like women. They’re much more inclined to take a man at his word when he says that nothing’s wrong. Real men don’t read each other’s minds. They consider it an invasion of privacy. But there was no excuse where I was concerned. Driving along The Cliff Road I wondered how I’d been able to go about my own life without returning sooner to make sure Tom Tingle was still among the living.
My less-than-courageous answer came back pretty quickly. If he had, however accidentally, killed Mrs. Large, he might be completely irrational when wondering just how much he had blabbed down on the beach. And I had no desire to encourage him in the belief that the fewer people who knew his secret the better.
I could now see his house. Its warm red brick was certainly hospitable-looking. Would its owner slam the door in my face when I came knocking? My knees did a bit of that as I parked where the drive divided into two arms encircling a small lawn in front of the house steps. Next to the bell was a sign that read “Out of Order.” So it had to be the knocker.
I rapped once—tentatively, as if flapping a leaf against a tree trunk. Realizing I could stand there all day at that rate, I got up the nerve to try again. I still didn’t make much of a bang, but presumably Tom had ears like a cat. He immediately opened the door. He looked dubious, but I announced firmly that I had come to see how he was doing while putting my foot in the door like someone selling floor polish. And after a moment’s hesitation he invited me to come in.
“Did I catch you in the middle of making dinner?” I asked, noticing as we stood in the wide hall that he was wearing an apron wrapped around his middle and that his hands were floury.
“I was just finishing up a steak and kidney pudding,” he said. “If you mean to stay more than a minute or two, we’d best head for the kitchen. I’m not the best cook in the world. But I know how to read a recipe, and this one calls for steaming over gently boiling water at least three hours. So I’ve got to look sharpish if I want to eat before seven.”
He led the way down the wide hall. Its carpet was shabby, the wallpaper needed replacing, but the windows on the staircase wall let in floods of light, and I imagined how handsome it might look if redecorated. We passed a couple of open doors on our way to the kitchen. One gave a glimpse of the dining room and the other of a book-lined study. The furniture looked old and there was a faintly musty smell. Even so, my heart warmed to the place. The quirky contours of the rooms and the sunlight twinkling on wainscotted walls already mellowed with age gave a sense of a house where people had once been happy and might be again. What was needed was cooperation from Tom.
When we entered the kitchen, my hopes rose on his behalf. Surely no one could have made such a floury mess preparing one steak and kidney pudding w
ithout getting some enjoyment out of the process. The old pine table was covered with a jumble of what seemed to be the entire contents of the pantry, fridge, and utensils drawer.
There were milk bottles—one full, the other almost empty—onion scraps, Oxo cubes, an empty suet packet, chunks of raw meat—all having been caught off guard in a dry blizzard. Little wonder the pudding basin and rolling pin looked as though they didn’t have a clue where to start. But luckily, their lord and master did not appear to be at a loss.
As I hovered across from him, Tom gave another twist to his rolled-up sleeves and got busy kneading the sticky mass in the mixing bowl he had unearthed from under a floury tea towel. If he didn’t look as expert at the job as Ben, he lost no points in letting his ingredients know who was boss.
“You look well,” I told him.
“I’m jogging along.” He picked up the overturned bag of flour, scattered more of its contents, slapped down the suet pastry, divided this in two, and rolled the larger piece into a circle. “But I suppose you’re referring to my dip in the sea the other day.” His face reddened. “It was awfully good of your husband to come in after me. I’m very appreciative, but there was no need for you to come all the way over here. I didn’t catch a deathly chill. And I hope your husband suffered no unpleasant repercussions.” Tom had lined the pudding basin with pastry and now dumped in the meat and chopped onion. “I know I should have got in touch, but I’m afraid I allowed my embarrassment to get in the way of good manners.”
“What”—I had to ask the question—”made you go into the sea with your clothes on?”
He finally looked at me. “Good gracious! You’ve been thinking I was trying to kill myself. Yes, I can see how you could have got that idea. It wasn’t much fun having a birthday party by myself; but I promise you, Mrs. Haskell, that you have got the wrong end of the stick. I plowed out into that icy water to save the life of another, not to end mine.”
The Spring Cleaning Murders Page 14
